Death of a Soldier
by mogar trygaeus
Summary: Short little story I wrote based on the European Front and Saving Private Ryan


Running; as fast as I ever have. Huffing puffing all the way down the destroyed street, ducking to a shot-up corner on a blurry building whose appearance didn't matter. Finally, a moment of rest. I check the rounds left in the clip of my M1A1 Thompson. Still only 17. Shit on toast. Only 17. Looking up, around the corner. Nothing in sight; signal the rest of the team up to the corner, then wait. Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. It's stereotypical, but that's all I ever do.

Suddenly, the rounded, smooth roll of the MG42 interrupts my slight trance. An uncountable amount of shots penetrate the low wall across the street. Patterson's hit all over, bleeding like a damn sieve. Damn, damn, damn. He's dead, no doubt. Peeking around the corner, back to the wall, the friendly noise pops up again, and I flinch like a green kid straight outta boot. Dust kicking up around the corner, jumping backwards, landing on my heel. Bam. Off goes the medic's helmet and I'm suddenly on my ass. I scramble like a newborn towards it and toss it back on. I've seen enough troops take off the helmet when they thought they were safe and bam, brains everywhere, and they have a fifth hole in their head.

Crouch-walking towards the back off the house, Tommy gun in hand. Pop around, no ones there. Sneak up to the back door; ready the grenade…BAM! Inwards goes the door, along with a small cylindrical ball of doom. Duck and cover, count to three, hope it's not too close to me. It's the grenade song, and it can save your ass.  
BOOM! Debris races like a horse out the back door. I walk in, pop to a doorway, sneak a peek, regain cover. Shit on toast. Three goddamn German Wehrmacht behind a table, and a fourth bleeding on the floor from a gut wound. The MG must've jumped the gun: they were going to ambush us.

Step back, take a big breath, and aim through the wall to the approximate position of the table. I've been in worst spots. Like in Julich. Just a knife, some K rations, and 20 miles to the nearest Allied front. I like killing with knives. You have to get close, real close; close enough to smell the cologne, see the remnants of what they've eaten recently, hear them utter prayers and mercies to their god. Useless, useless, useless.

Aim, aim, and aim. Put the triangle in your sight, your enemy's not going home tonight. Tommy gun aiming Jodie. Ready for the kick and rise of the barrel, and squeeze the trigger. The noise is like a kid playing soldier; it goes rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat. Holes the size of a golf ball in the wall, passages through the wall, through the table, and into the Wehrmacht on the other side. Supposedly the 355th SS unit, but who knows.

Shooting, shooting, shooting, and then click-click-click. I'm out. Grab a clip, bang against my helmet. Nice whole sound. Slap the magazine in, pull the charging handle, and reload is over. Wait, wait, then boom, around the corner.

Of the three behind the table, two are dead. I hit an ammo clip for one guy's MP40, sending bullets flying around. The third kraut is missing half his face. I walk over, unsheathe my bayonet, and jab it in deep to the right of his exposed throat, which spews blood up like a fountain onto his face. Hee hee hee. I was one hell of a pain in the neck to that guy.

Wiping off the blood on the bayonet, I put it back in its sheath, then approach the stairs on the opposite side of the room. Stairs are bad when clearing houses; you have to walk upstairs backwards to avoid getting shot in the back. Worst injury a warrior can have is one in the back.

Step, step, step, up I go. Hit a stair near the top, and creak, my presence is known. Readying another grenade, I toss it up and over the railing, then duck down the stairs. Boom goes the room, and the angel of death gets another friend.

Run up quick, and check the area. Stairs lead up so that you're facing the wall my back is against. Looking down them, you see a room on the wall to your left and one at the end of the hall. Slowly, slowly now, towards the door on my left. Ready…and kick; down goes the door, with a person sandwiched between it and the floor. Point the Tommy's barrel down, rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat. The noise has a weird attribute, something like a quick echo at the end. Barrel up, sweep the room. Window, closet, drawer, panzerfaust. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, closet's clear. Looking out the window, checking out the situation.

To the left, down the road we were heading down, my unit pinned behind building corners. To the right, about 40 feet, a MG42 spouting messengers of death that head towards my friends. It's nestled 'mongst the ruins of a queer little café, like it's a natural thing for it to be there. Naval shelling isn't good, it creates perfect cover for troops and weapons with debris.

Luckily, I found a panzerfaust, and it's just what I need. Opening the window silently, as to not bring attention to myself, I slowly bring the panzerfaust up. Aim, aim, aim, and fooooooosh. There it goes cat daddy. The weird, peach shaped explosive flies towards its target.

Jerry hears it coming, looks over. It hits him square on in the shoulder. Booom, like that. MG42 is dead, blown out of the café like a stick in the wind. Slowly walk outside the room, and wham, kraut in my face. Unconsciously punching him in the face, him falling backwards the railings, snap, nix that, broken railings. He falls, and snap, something else is broken. Walk back down the stairs and into the entry hallway. Open front door and blinding light. Door's gone. Tank's here.

Running back into the building as the front room disintegrates, throwing me out a window into a grey backyard. Looking up, a Nazi grins and points his pistol at my right eye.

Shit.


End file.
